Where Shall My Hand Rest Now?
I still reach for you.
In the dark,
in the quiet,
in the spaces where your warmth
used to live.
My hand remembers.
It remembers your chest,
steady beneath my palm,
the heartbeat that guided me home.
It remembers the way you’d squeeze back
without words,
just to say you were there.
Now the sheets are cold.
The air feels wrong.
I move through rooms
that once held your laughter
and feel the silence pressing
against my ribs.
I thought love ended with anger,
with distance,
with choice.
But I never imagined
it could end
with absence.
They tell me you’re gone,
but my body refuses to believe it.
My hand keeps searching
for your hair,
your breath,
your touch -
finding nothing
but the echo of you
lingering like smoke.
How do I live in halves
when every part of me
was built to lean on you?
Where shall my hand rest now
that it can no longer rest on you?
I whisper your name
into the pillow
like a prayer no one answers.
The world keeps moving.
I stay still.
And in every small moment
between night and mourning,
I reach again
and find only air.
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